


Princess of Summerhall

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The life of Rhaenys Targaryen, the blood of the dragon and a daughter of the spear.
Relationships: Brienne of Tarth & Rhaenys Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Rhaegar Targaryen & Rhaenys Targaryen
Comments: 34
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous





	1. if that mockingbird don't sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If a good father didn’t have favourite children, Rhaegar must be the worst father in the world._
> 
> Some broken things can't be repaired, but Rhaegar Targaryen never learned to give up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the compilation of several one shots I wrote in the same universe. It's getting somewhat unwieldy as I add more instalments, so I thought it made sense to put them together so I can add new chapters here instead of as their own work.

She looked just like Elia.

Rhaegar stared at the portrait of his eldest child decorating the wall and thought back to better days, when she had adored him and clung to him and demanded his attention always.

It had made Elia endearingly grumpy.

 _“All that time I spend with her,”_ she’d said, _“and she still prefers you?”_

Now she could barely look at him. This way it had been for far, far longer than she’d loved him, now, but he still couldn’t grasp it – Rhaenys was little and hated shoes and loved cats and climbed into his lap to demand stories of dragons and their riders. She crawled into his bed and tugged him by the hand to play with her kitten and couldn’t sleep until he sang her a song. How could it have all gone so wrong?

It hadn’t always been like this, but there had been a fissure between them since he’d first returned home from the Trident, one that he hadn’t known how to repair, one that had broadened into an unbridgeable chasm. He knew where it had come from, of course he did – he might have been her favourite when she was a child, but _Elia._ He’d made a mess of his marriage, and ruined Elia’s life, and Rhaenys was more than clever enough to know it.

Their marriage hadn’t been a cold one. No, Elia had been always been warm. Responsible. Clever. Even better, she’d given him Rhaenys. How could he have ever looked elsewhere when she’d done that? Their daughter was eight and ten now and beautiful. She was clever and kind and just, and he should wed her to Aegon, but _how could he_? How could he make her marry her own brother when he’d _seen_ what that caused?

If only he knew.

He dreamt of his wife that night, barefoot and clad in mourning white. At first, he thought she was Rhaenys, but no – Rhaenys wasn’t so thin and frail, didn’t leave her hair loose down her back, was younger and stronger. _Elia_.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ he said, reaching out to her, but she drew back from his touch and looked up at him with judgement filled eyes.

_You don’t want to do this, Rhaegar._

As much as he wished he didn’t, he knew what she was talking about immediately.

 _She would be queen,_ he told the ghost. _She would rule the Seven Kingdoms at her brother’s side._

 _She would be a prisoner,_ his dead wife murmured back. The heat was gone, and those big dark eyes were wounded and reproachful.

 _She’s too clever, too valuable an advisor to be sent off,_ he argued.

 _Marriage need not mean you lose that,_ Elia shot back.

 _She would be safer here,_ he tried, and Elia countered, _safe from what?_

_She would…_

_You say_ would _as if you’ve already made up your mind she won’t._ She touched him then, a hand against his chest and the other against his cheek. Her fingers were icier than they’d ever been in life. _When will it end, Rhaegar?_

He woke up not screaming, but gasping for breath.

_Elia, Elia, I’m sorry._

It took him several moments to compose himself, and several more to be able to think clearly again. When he could, he gritted his teeth and nodded to himself. So that it would be. That much, he could do.

* * *

He summoned Aegon and Jon to him whenever he wanted a word, but to Rhaenys, he went himself. He found her in her solar the next evening, surrounded by legal books and fingers smeared with ink.

“Father,” she said stiffly without getting up. “What do you need?”

No pomp, no preamble, no pleasantries. _Of course._

“I have been considering your marriage,” he said, swallowing the disappointment. “There are a number of potential candidates. I thought you might like to weigh in.”

Rhaenys raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together without saying anything. Rhaegar soldiered on. “Willas Tyrell is an option. So are Robb Stark and –”

“You want me to marry a Stark?” she demanded, setting down her pen. “Have you not shamed my mother enough?”

“I just meant that he’s –”

“I heard you,” Rhaenys interrupted. “He’s an _option._ ”

She shook her head in disgust. “I can’t believe you would suggest that to me.”

“Rhaenys,” he pleaded. “Please, sweetling. I’m sorry. This isn’t about…”

She scoffed. “ _Sorry._ Aren’t you always?”

She stood up, leaning forward over her desk. Her jaw was set, the softness that had barely been there to begin with gone. “I am a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and I will not be banished to some barren wasteland because you don’t want to look at me anymore.”

 _Don’t want to look at you anymore?_ Did she really believe that? If a good father didn’t have favourite children, Rhaegar must be the worst father in the world.

He didn’t think much about Lyanna anymore. If anyone knew that, they’d strike him in the face, king or no, because how could he have started a war because of a woman he didn’t care about enough to think about later over the mountain of corpses and rivers of blood?

They didn’t understand. They’d never understand.

Lyanna was dead and Elia was dead and the only way to see either of them was to look into his children’s faces and Rhaenys looked more like Elia than Jon could ever resemble Lyanna, even more than Aegon resembled him. She looked so much like Elia that it hurt to look at her, but the hurt was nothing, nothing next to the warmth of seeing the woman she’d become, remembering the pride of presenting her to his mother; the wonder he had felt when she had first learned to crawl, then walk; the joy of her gurgles and the glee of her first word.

A good father wouldn’t have favourite children. But the intensity of Rhaegar’s love of Rhaenys made everything else feel dim and dark and dull. He’d been pleased about Aegon, his prince that was promised, but being _pleased_ wasn’t the same as the delight when the maester had placed Rhaenys in his arms, the dizzying elation of sitting with his arms around Elia and helping her hold their newborn daughter, the fierce protectiveness that flooded through him whenever Rhaenys had made a sound. He’d always tended to melancholy, but Rhaenys, Rhaenys, _Rhaenys_ lifted that cloud like no one else ever could.

Aegon had been conceived under a comet of fate, Jon in a secluded tower away from the world, but neither of them felt anywhere near as special as the daughter. He hadn’t even been there for Jon’s birth, but when they’d finally met…he’d been a baby. Eyes, ears, fingers, toes. The sight of him hadn’t elicited anything near the joy of being presented with Rhaenys. Nothing ever could.

He’d left her behind. How could he have done that?

It all went back to that crown of winter roses, didn’t it? He’d commissioned Elia a crown just like it once they’d returned to Dragonstone, but of silver and sapphires. She had ordered it melted down, then donated the silver to one charity, the sapphires to another.

 _“It would be foolish to don a crown, even if I were so vain, my prince,”_ she’d said. _“Your father is yet king. Surely the coin would be better spent on those in need than on jewels I cannot wear.”_

It had been logical, the kind of cautious decision Elia always made, and her words were just as outwardly polite as ever. But she’d called him _my prince_ when she’d always addressed him as _Rhaegar,_ and her smile hadn’t been the blinding joy he’d grown accustomed to, and it had been painfully obvious how furious she was with him.

 _It was just a crown of roses_ , he’d wanted to say, but nothing was ever _just_ anything, least of all riding past the mother of his daughter to crown another woman with flowers at the greatest tourney in his lifetime in front of hundreds of people. He’d had no idea how to earn her forgiveness when she wouldn’t accept his gifts. Luckily for him, Elia had never been good at staying angry.

It hadn’t taken long before she’d deigned to smile at him as her belly had begun to swell with their son, even though he hadn’t apologized or explained himself. When he’d been allowed in to see her after the birth, she’d been borderline delirious and gripped his hand hard enough to break it, a wordless forgiveness and offer of another chance.

He’d stayed for two months after that, long enough to know that Elia would survive and learn that she would not be able to bear him another child and live, long enough to set his resolve and muster the conviction to leave, long enough to present Rhaenys with a kitten when he knew what he’d do so she’d have company while he was gone and Elia was bedridden. And even though his initial reaction to Aegon had been more along the lines of _satisfied_ than delighted, reassured in his convictions and terrified for Elia, heartsick and guilty at the thought of what he had to do, the night before he’d left Dragonstone, he’d sat with his entire family and all he had felt was love for them all. He’d lifted a sleepy Rhaenys onto his lap and kissed his wife’s knuckles as he smiled at her. When she’d smiled back, weak and tired, bright and happy and with no blame, Aegon asleep against her breast, Rhaegar had known peace for the first time since he’d heard of the song of ice and fire.

Then he’d ruined it all by abandoning his wife in her sickbed to chase after his Visenya that never was.

She’d been the practical to his romantic, the dependable to his capricious, and he missed her more than he had ever thought possible. Had she died believing he’d left because of love, because she and the family they’d built didn’t matter to him? Had she died believing that that crown of roses had meant more to him than the cloak he’d draped over her shoulders and that she shouldn’t have melted the crown he’d gifted her so she could have instead thrown it at his head?

 _It was just a crown of roses,_ cool blue and fragile and representative of nothing and gone just like Elia. Now he could never tell her how hers was skin better suited for warmer colours, anyway, just as she’d worn. She had favoured jewellery that was all elegance, delicate spun gold and touches of amber. Rhaenys stored those precious treasures in her chambers, cherished them and loved them and donned instead the rubies and onyx of House Targaryen.

Now, she wore black and red and walked in a column of moonlight where her skin was made for the sunshine.

The sight warmed him at the same time as it made his gut churn. It wasn’t _right,_ it wasn’t _her_ – too harsh and stark and blunt – but they were his colours, and even if she hated him, she wasn’t rejecting this small part of him. He wasn’t fool enough to believe it was for him, but hope, hope that she’d forgive him one day? _That_ he would never be able to resist.

“I am a Targaryen,” she hissed at him, leaning forward even more, hands braced against the desk. “No matter what you want to pretend.”

“I have _never_ pretended otherwise,” he snapped. “You are Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen. You are my firstborn. No matter what, you will always be my daughter.”

“You say that,” she said, “and yet you want to marry me off to whichever lord you can think of that needs a bride. I may not inherit your throne, Father, but I am the blood of the dragon, and my place is here. I will _not_ let you send me into exile.”

It was as if she’d shoved him, stolen all the air from his lungs. How could she ever think he’d _ever_ cast her aside? There was no one in the _world,_ dead or alive, that he loved more than her. If it had been his choice, _she_ would be his heir, next in line to be queen in her own right. The man he’d been twenty years ago would have named her such and damn the consequences, but he was older now, and perhaps wiser, cautious enough to know it was madness to risk civil war by favouring a daughter over a son when the son was not cruel or stupid or weak, but tempted to do it all the same.

Surely she knew he would never, _never,_ cast her aside.

He was at a loss for words, but she wasn’t – she moved out from behind her desk and got in his face, unafraid, furious. “I’ll marry Aegon, I’m not giving anyone any reason to say I’m not a real Targaryen. I will not allow you to forsake us, Father.”

“Rhaenys,” he said again. “That’s not – I don’t – I didn’t marry my sister, that doesn’t change that I’m a Targaryen.”

His daughter’s laugh was harsh and grating and nothing, nothing like the high, sweet giggle he’d known so well. “No, you didn’t. You married a princess of Dorne and decided polygamy was as Targaryen as anything. You thought about what you wanted without any regard for anyone else. And now I have to protect Aegon’s right. And my own.”

“Protect it from _who_?” he demanded. “Jon wouldn’t – you _like_ him.”

“I do like him,” she agreed. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being cautious. He doesn’t have to want to harm us for people to try it in his name. We’re Dornish, after all – Aegon may have forgotten the Blackfyre Rebellions, but I haven’t. I’m his sister. It’s my job to protect him. He will be king, I will be beside him, and we shall have no dispute over succession. If I have to marry him to ensure it, I will do it.”

 _Don’t you see?_ he wanted to shout. _I’m doing this for you!_

But he couldn’t tell her that, couldn’t convince her of anything, couldn’t…So instead, with the waver in his voice barely contained, he said, “You don’t want to do this, Rhaenys.”

Her chin jutted out like a challenge. “Of course I don’t. The thought makes me sick. But I will, Father. Sons and daughters have always paid the price for the sins of their forefathers. And now I must pay the price for yours.”

She strode out the door in swirls of silk, taller than Elia had been, even though she’d been tiny as a babe and a child. She was made for a crown, his daughter, poised and perfect. If only…

Rhaegar stared after her. Was it strange, to treasure even these moments with his daughter? Her anger and her loathing, her bitterness and her venom, all of it, because it meant she was alive to hate him? She might never love him again, but she was smart and beloved and maybe – _maybe_ – he’d be able to fix _some_ of it.

He sat down on the floor and closed his eyes. His knees protested the movement, but he ignored it, focusing on his breathing.

He thought.

Every breath of it was agony, but he could live with her hatred. He had for years now. What he could not live with was her unsafe, uncared for, unhappy. But he’d never been able to deny her anything – how could he both respect her wishes and stop her from making herself miserable?

He couldn’t marry her to Aegon, nor to anyone else. He couldn’t send her away, nor keep her here to be made unhappy by his presence. But what could he do?

It came to him in a flash: Summerhall had been built to celebrate peace with Dorne. Who better to claim it as a seat than the half-Dornish princess?

He’d begun restorations with the distant thought of giving it to Viserys, but this was better, this had to be fate. Viserys might not like it, but he was off in Sunspear. His wife would be the ruling princess and he’d be her consort. Their wedding had been to appease the Dornish, but it at least meant that he wasn’t there to compete with his family. Jon might be jealous, but he could never have Summerhall, never have a seat so close to Dorne. But Rhaenys, Rhaenys was perfect for this.

He couldn’t make her his heir, but Summerhall, Summerhall he could give her. It was a castle that he had every right to pass down to his daughter.

She wouldn’t have to wed her brother. She wouldn’t have to wed anyone.

He’d loved those ruins and grieved over them, visited them alone to play his harp and sleep under the stars. Surely she’d understand that, understand what it meant for him to gift the castle and lands to her. Summerhall meant more to him than Dragonstone or King’s Landing ever had, just as she meant more to him than anyone else. Surely, a castle so close to Dorne all for her would make her realize that he didn’t _care_ what colours she wore, that she was a Targaryen whether she wore yellow or green or white, whether she donned silver or gold, ruby or sapphire.

Or maybe it would make her think he was getting increasingly desperate to get rid of her, even though everything in him revolted at the idea of sending her away, of her leaving to go anywhere. He didn’t know how she would react to anything he did anymore.

He had to talk to her.

He scrambled to his feet and all but ran out of the room.

* * *

He found Daenerys sitting with Rhaenys’s brothers in the library, Rhaenys herself nowhere in sight.

“Father,” Aegon said, rising to greet him. Rhaegar gestured for him to sit back down.

“Have any of you seen Rhaenys?” he asked quietly. “I thought she’d be with you.”

Aegon blinked slowly and lowered his gaze for a moment. “Not since dinner. Jon?”

“She retired early,” Daenerys interjected as Jon shook his head. “She told me she had other business to attend to, but that we could still go riding tomorrow.”

Rhaegar inclined his head towards her. “Thank you, Dany. Enjoy the rest of your evening, all of you.”

He thought hard as he walked away.

Even as children, Rhaenys and Dany had been fond of each other. Viserys had even helped his niece hold the new baby, who’d been fascinated by the older girl’s long, dark curls. That fondness hadn’t faded. Dany would reach six and ten within the year, and Aegon – or maybe Jon – had let slip that Rhaenys already had plans to gift her a sand steed from Oberyn’s stables. She was always so careful about being the perfect Targaryen princess, so mindful of Baelor Breakspear, but she was willing to risk seeming Dornish for her aunt’s sake. And Dany…still, almost every other sentence out of her mouth seemed to involve some variation of _Rhaenys says._

She wasn’t yet promised to anyone, she could join Rhaenys’s household and they could go to Summerhall together. Rhaenys could arrange her aunt’s marriage. Surely that would convince his daughter that he was doing this for her, that he valued her, that he was still the man she’d instinctively trusted, even when scared and angry. When he’d first come home, all those years ago, she’d run into his arms and he’d held her tight and her anger hadn’t yet festered into bitterness and hate. That couldn't be gone, not forever.

He made his way to her chambers and knocked on the door. There was no response. He could see light shining through the bottom, so he knocked again, a little louder, and waited. When there was still no response, he pushed the door open.

A single candle still burned, casting long shadows across the walls. Rhaenys was asleep in a chair with a book open in her lap, and for the first time in a long time, he could take in the sight of her when she wasn’t angry or donning a gentle expression for petitioners. A worried frown creased her brow, and her eyes darted from side to side beneath the closed lids. Her face, round and rosy-cheeked as a child, now seemed almost gaunt. She wasn’t dressed for bed, but she’d changed out of her red gown and donned something soft and orange. Dark hair tumbled down her shoulders, unbound. Her fingers were free of her usual heavy, iron rings. She’d even put on one of Elia’s necklaces, something Oberyn had brought her from Essos before she had been betrothed to Rhaegar and that Rhaenys had kept safe. The ensemble together was more like Elia than Rhaenys ever dressed.

She had never looked less like her mother, or more like him.

He didn’t lift her, for fear of waking her, but he eased the book out of her hands, marked the page, and set it on the table before sitting down beside her. She was smaller in her sleep, less fierce and commanding and arresting, more vulnerable and subdued.

His little dragon.

If anyone was worthy of one, it was her.

Ah, that was something else he could do – he’d return to Dragonstone, to Summerhall, and he’d find her a dragon’s egg. There had to be some somewhere, and he’d search all of Westeros, and Essos, too, to find them, present them to his eldest. Surely _then_ she’d understand how much he loved her.

One stormy night on Dragonstone, she’d begun crying, and the night nurse hadn’t been able to soothe her. He’d been out of bed and on his way to check on her in minutes. Oh, the pride he’d felt when she’d immediately stopped howling the moment he’d taken her into his arms! Rhaenys had been _his,_ in a way that Aegon and Jon never were. He’d known what she wanted, how to make her laugh, how to calm her tears. She’d liked it when he played the harp and even more when he sang.

Now he started to hum, the same lullaby she’d loved as a babe. Rhaenys didn’t wake, so he dared to reach out and stroke her hair as he hummed. Her breathing remained deep and even. His eyes stung.

He finished the song.

He stayed there, by her side, for a greedy count of ten before rising. He fetched a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, rearranged the papers scattered around her, and refilled her half empty inkwell before he had to admit to himself that there was no more reason for him to be there.

He blew out the candle.

“Sleep well, Rhaenys,” he whispered, and he dropped a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head as he prepared to leave. “Dada is going to find you a dragon egg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	2. all great and precious things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys builds her court, holds a feast, and talks to her family.

Daenerys’s smile was bright and delighted.

“Summerhall!” she said, eyes dancing with excitement. “Your own castle! And Rhaegar’s letting me go with you?”

Rhaenys managed a smile. “Yes, so it would seem.”

“When are we leaving?”

“A week or two?” Rhaenys said. “We’ll need to alert the members of the host. They may have other duties to attend to that will delay us.”

“We don’t need a whole host, do we?” Daenerys said, lower lip pushed out in a pout, eyes pleading. “We should ride ahead. We could leave today!”

Rhaenys sighed and indulged her. “Of course we can. But then _you_ will have to pack some things.”

She gestured for her aunt to go, but Daenerys was already moving. Rhaenys had to laugh. The levity didn’t last long.

_Summerhall, Summerhall, Summerhall._

Better than being banished to the north, yes. And a seat of her own, that was powerful. But Summerhall had been built as a residence. It was only lightly fortified, and close, too close, to Dorne. No army, no bannermen of her own, and until she could replace them, her treasurer and seneschal and captain of the guard and everyone down to her master of _horse_ would be one of Rhaegar’s creatures. A symbol more than anything real.

It wouldn’t keep her _safe._

 _Tully,_ she thought. _Tyrell, Hightower…_

Perhaps one of the marcher lords. They were closer to her new castle, and allying with them would might mean she could build up a defense against an attack – Dorne at her back, new allies at her side, and she might have enough. Maybe both. She had Dany’s hand to offer as well…and surely Dany would side with her over her often distant brother…

Lord Tarly had a son – younger than her, if not so much as to matter, but close to Dany’s age. That could work. If she married a Hightower and offered Dany to the Tarly boy…

 _Would you approve, Father?_ she thought. _Would you be proud?_

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping her family safe, and for that, she needed to focus.

 _One thing at a time,_ she told herself. _Go claim your castle._

* * *

When a messenger came to tell Rhaenys that she had someone waiting to meet with her, two days after her arrival at Summerhall, every worst case scenario flashed through her mind at once. Luckily for her, it was none of those.

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the woman waiting for her and moved to embrace her tightly. “Sarella. Thank the gods. What are you doing here?”

“Our dear cousin thought you might like a friendly face and a fresh set of eyes,” Sarella said with a grin. “I take it she was right?”

“Bless her,” Rhaenys said, and it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps it was too dangerous to associate to closely with her trueborn cousins, but Sarella and her sisters…they could go anywhere without being noticed, speak to anyone without drawing suspicion. They were _safe._ “Come along to my solar, we can speak in private.”

“I brought Dany’s present,” Sarella said, once Rhaenys had closed the door behind them. “She’s in the stables now. Father picked her out himself.”

It was the least of Rhaenys’s concerns, but hearing it was a relief anyway. One fewer thing to worry about. One fewer thing she had to be afraid of ruining. “What about Viserys?”

“Don’t worry,” Sarella assured her. “He’s perfectly healthy, and Arianne has him well under control.”

“And how is she?”

Sarella arched her eyebrows. “Worried about you.”

It was obviously a question, so Rhaenys insisted, “I’m _fine._ Just busy trying to figure out marriages and who to invite to stay.”

“Arianne made notes,” Sarella said. “On your options. She didn’t want to risk a raven getting intercepted, so I brought them myself.”

She handed Rhaenys a sheet of paper, neatly folded. Rhaenys unfolded it to see it covered with Arianne’s cramped, rushed handwriting. Squeezed into the top right corner was a pair of dots and a curved line, forming a smiling face.

_Oh, Arianne…_

Sweet, lovely Arianne, so clever and kind and _wonderful._

Rhaenys ran a hand over the page and pictured her cousin’s smile, longed for the security of her embrace. Arianne was safe, Arianne was reliable, Arianne had been made for all of this. Rhaenys wished she were there. If anyone would know the answer, it was Arianne.

But Arianne wasn’t there. So Rhaenys drew in a deep breath, and asked, “Sarella, would you be so kind as to help me write some letters? I think it’s time we make sure everyone knows who now holds this seat.”

* * *

_Margaery for Aegon,_ she thought later, after Sarella had gone to visit the library and left her alone. _Samwell for Daenerys. Edmure for me._

Or maybe…Willas for her, Baelor Hightower’s daughter for Aegon, and Lancel Lannister for Dany? She didn’t like the idea of offering the Lannisters a princess, shifting the balance of power…but what if they took offense at her choosing the Hightowers or Tyrells over them? She let out a strangled scream and banged her head against the desk.

Aegon and Dany were trouble enough, but her…there were too many variables.

Should she wed a younger son and stick to tradition, or risk the dangers of marrying heir to heir? Did she even _count_ as an heir, with her brother to inherit most of their father’s lands, but a castle of her own? Did that mean it was more dangerous to choose poorly or less?

Maybe this was the real reason the Targaryens of old had wed brother to sister – how did _anyone_ marry without offending some family or another? If she married Aegon, that would mean avoiding that risk. Maybe she should do that and find someone discreet to father her children…

She needed a break.

She got up and went to look for Daenerys. She found her sitting cross-legged on the floor in her own sitting area, focused so intently on the scraps of wool she seemed intent on repurposing that she didn’t even notice Rhaenys entering.

“Dany,” Rhaenys said by way of greeting. “Would you like your nameday gift early?”

Daenerys started, but broke out into a bright smile as she registered what Rhaenys had said. She set aside her sewing and got to her feet. “Yes!”

And so Rhaenys led her aunt to the stables.

Dany’s eyes lit up when Rhaenys gestured to her present. “A sand steed! What’s her name?”

“Gwendolen,” Rhaenys said. “Do you like her?”

Daenerys hugged her tightly. “I love her. Thank you, Rhaenys.”

A lump formed in Rhaenys’s throat, and when she reached to stroke her aunt’s silvery hair, it was with a hand that trembled.

“I thought we could hold a feast,” she said once she could speak again. “You’re coming of age, after all – it’s a grand occasion. What say you?”

Dany’s smile broadened even further. Rhaenys felt ancient just looking at her. “Yes!”

Rhaenys smiled back and took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. One thing at a time. She could do it. She just had to keep breathing.

* * *

It was easier at Summerhall, if not by much. There were no judging eyes on her at all times, no Rhaegar constantly hovering, no need to constantly be perfect. The crushing weight was slightly more bearable. But even here, when it was late and she should be asleep, she stayed up poring over documents that could wait, because if she slept, she would find herself knee deep in snow, the echoes of screams ringing in her ears.

So she kept working.

It was routine, until it wasn’t – when she reached across her desk to grab the next paper, she knocked over her inkwell, and then she was crying.

She hastily scooted away from her desk so the tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, didn’t smear the ink, but they kept falling, her breath catching in her chest as she struggled to get enough air.

She wanted – she wanted – she wanted _something,_ but she didn’t know what; wanted to be somewhere, but she didn’t know where; she wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything would work out, but she didn’t know who. The tears kept falling.

 _Dornishmen don’t waste water lightly,_ Arianne liked to say. _Come, now, dry your eyes._

She wasn’t Dornish, not really. She’d been born on Dragonstone and raised in King’s Landing and now was straining under the weight of responsibility in the marches. She was a dragon of nowhere, never a sun of Dorne. But she still didn’t have time for a breakdown. And since Arianne wasn’t there to take her by the chin and sweep away the tears with her thumb, Rhaenys scrubbed her face with the heel of her own hand, righted the fallen inkwell, and got back to work.

Summerhall sat at the intersection of Dorne, the Stormlands, and the Reach. Surely she could use that, somehow.

 _Can’t forget the smaller houses,_ she thought. _Make them feel important._

She considered her knowledge of the houses and ran her hand over the map. The Evenstar of Tarth had a daughter, she knew, just about her age. She could ask Lord Selwyn to send her to Summerhall as a companion to the princesses. Surely he’d say yes – there was no queen nor queen mother; Rhaenys was the closest there was. An invitation to join her household wouldn’t be turned down lightly. And she dimly recalled some gossip about a maiden challenging her betrothed to a duel…it might have been the Lady Brienne. There had been a string of failed betrothals there. If Rhaenys could arrange a good match for the girl, it could only be good for her cause. But who else to invite?

Her court should represent all of the Seven Kingdoms. Dorne was easy. Desmera Redwyne was Dany’s age, Margaery Tyrell just a little older. If she invited them, she’d have the Reach. With the Tarth girl, she’d have a Stormlander. The Vale…Lord Royce had a daughter. Rhaenys couldn’t quite remember her name – Ysabel? Ysilla? She might serve. The Riverlands had plenty of options to choose from, the Westerlands, too. As for the north…there were several girls she could call upon – Alys Karstark for certain, several others whose names she couldn’t recall. But if she did that, then she’d almost certainly have to invite one of the Stark girls once they were a little older. She didn’t want a Stark anywhere near her, but dismissing the idea of inviting them out of hand was foolish. Not when she needed allies wherever she could get them, not when her resources were so limited.

She didn’t have a lot of gold to work with. A title and a castle, yes, but it was a summer residence more than anything else. She could build it into something greater with enough time, she thought. She could summon artisans and generate revenue through – she shut that down firmly.

 _No,_ she told herself. _One thing at a time. Focus on the people. Build your household first, and if you do it right, the rest will be easy._

This was the sort of thing Arianne could do in her sleep. Rhaenys nearly started crying all over again. Sarella was wonderful and brilliant, calm and soothing, but here she needed Nym or Tyene or best of all, Arianne. Arianne would know what to say; Arianne would know the answers.

Aside from her ladies, who did she need to invite? Rhaenys pictured her cousin, arching an expectant eyebrow at her. _What kind of court do you want to establish? The who, the how, it’s all the same question._

Something lively, for certain. Generous. Something that would make her known and popular amongst the smallfolk…

 _A centre for learning,_ she thought. _Get all the smartest people in the realm. The Oldtown of the east. Maesters and artists alike._

Good, that was good. Specific. It would appeal to many, especially those still wary about Rhaegar’s irresponsibility. And the artists and performers – Edmure Tully was already coming to meet with her, and his predilection for pretty girls and amusements was famous. If he enjoyed his visit, he might stay or return, regardless of whether or not they wed. Then the Riverlands would be hers.

She glanced up from the map at the sound of a knock. Daenerys stood in the doorway, plate in hand. “You didn’t come for dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh! Thank you, Dany, that was very thoughtful.”

She accepted the tray – bread and cheese and grapes, a soup of onion and mushroom – and set it on the edge of the table, turning back to her papers as her aunt started to leave. But then Daenerys paused and asked, hesitantly, “Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys looked back up at Dany, who stood there awkwardly, chewing on her bottom lip. The younger girl blurted, “You’ve been working for hours, do you want to take a break?”

“I can’t,” Rhaenys said. “There’s just so much to do.”

Dany stepped back into the room. “Then can I help?”

Rhaenys smiled for real then, the tension around her eyes easing. She gestured for Dany to sit. “I would welcome it.”

“So what are you working on?”

“A list. Of people we should invite to our home. What say you?”

Daenerys tucked her feet up under her and thought about it. “We could support craftspeople? Like the first Rhaenys did. The singers will write songs about you! The first Princess of Summerhall.”

“Aegon the Sixth’s older, sma – prettier sister?” Rhaenys japed. Dany’s high, sweet giggle filled the air. She snagged a grape from Rhaenys’s tray and popped it into her mouth.

“Aegon the Sixth’s most important advisor,” she said. And even though their chairs were too far apart for her to rest her head on Rhaenys’s shoulder, or curl up against her, or sprawl halfway across her lap like a cat as she often did so Rhaenys could stroke her hair, she leaned forward and took Rhaenys’s hands in her own. “The people’s princess.”

Rhaenys’s eyes stung, but she squeezed Daenerys’s hands back and managed a smile. “I’ll do my best to be just that.”

* * *

Arianne’s retinue arrived first, three days before the feast, she and Viserys in the lead. Rhaenys managed to keep calm while greeting them, but couldn’t resist the urge to command Daenerys to show her brother and his guests to their rooms so she could speak to Arianne alone.

As soon as they were in private, Arianne pulled her into a hug. She was warm and strong and smelled nice, and even though Rhaenys was taller and now a woman grown, Arianne’s embrace felt like safety, like home, like a mother’s warmth. For the first time in a long time, Rhaenys could _breathe._

Rhaenys found herself clinging to her cousin, pressing her face into the crook of her neck and breathing her in. Her mother had smelled like this, Rhaenys thought, though of course she couldn’t be sure. What she remembered of Elia came in flashes – a quiet laugh, gentle hands brushing out her hair, a voice that might have been hers and might have been anyone’s.

She did remember that she’d favoured her father’s company. How could she have done that?

When she’d been six or seven, Rhaegar had told her stories about meeting his future wife for the first time. She hadn’t wanted to listen then. Now she wondered if she should have. He might not have any right to reminisce, but surely she and Aegon had a right to _know._ As it was, all she had was maybes.

“It’s going to be all right,” Arianne murmured into her ear, stroking her hair. “I’m here.”

“Sorry I haven’t written much,” Rhaenys mumbled. “I was just…”

“Scared?” Arianne finished with a smile in her voice. “I understand. I’m here to help. I’ll have to go back to Dorne soon, but Daemon will stay with you for a while longer. You can trust him.”

Rhaenys dimly remembered seeing Ser Daemon by Oberyn’s side, years ago, so she nodded. Arianne let go of her, and the smile Rhaenys had heard in her voice was there across her mouth, too.

“Let’s go take a walk,” Arianne said, and her smile went mischievous. “You need a break. We can discuss all your possible options, then you can tell me which one you want and I’ll gift you your future husband by the end of the feast. In your bed or waiting for you at the sept, whichever you prefer.”

Rhaenys made herself laugh.

“If you can do that,” she said, “I’m going to hide and make you do everything for me.”

* * *

Edmure Tully was next to arrive, with a larger party than Arianne had brought. Rhaenys had met some of his companions before, and didn’t much like any of them, but she made herself smile at them and offer them food and wine, show them to comfortable rooms, just as she did again when Lady Margaery arrived with her own large contingent of giggling girls, Lancel Lannister with his pack of brothers, cousins, and other Lannister men, several of the marcher lords in one group. It was almost a relief when Brienne of Tarth rode in alone, mere hours before the feast, quiet and unassuming.

Rhaenys smiled at the woman as she dismounted. The Lady Brienne was tall and ungainly, clad in a plain dress of dark blue, as if she hoped to avoid drawing attention to herself. Rhaenys could appreciate the impulse. “Lady Brienne, welcome.”

Brienne curtseyed awkwardly. “Princess Rhaenys. I – I thank you for the invitation.”

“ _I_ hope you stay for longer,” Rhaenys said. She pushed her lower lip out into a pout. “You will, won’t you?”

Brienne went red. “As – as you wish, princess.”

“Excellent,” Rhaenys said. She took Brienne’s arm and tugged her towards the castle. “Come in! You travelled quite a distance, you must need refreshments.”

She chattered as they walked and she wished she could shut up, but this part was easy. This she could do.

 _One thing at a time,_ she thought, and made herself smile. _One thing at a time._

* * *

There was music and dancing, food and flirting, wine and banter. Dany seemed to be enjoying herself, dancing with someone that Rhaenys couldn’t recognize from a distance. Arianne was touching Edmure Tully’s arm and smiling warmly; Viserys was seated with a cup of wine.

Rhaenys was fighting a surge of panic at just how many people were there.

Arianne had whispered a reminder earlier – _don’t worry, Rhaenys. I’m here. No one will lay a finger on you –_ but even that wasn’t enough to stop Rhaenys’s pulse from racing or her eyes from darting around the hall, compulsively searching for the exit. As she cast another look around, her gaze fell on the one person at the feast that looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

Brienne sat in the corner, clutching a cup of wine for dear life. Rhaenys was striding over to her before she even registered that she was moving.

“Not liking your drink?” she asked. Brienne started badly. She stammered for an answer, but Rhaenys cut her off with a smile and a conspiratorial wink. “To be perfectly honest…this isn’t my ideal location, either. But since we’re both here, let me introduce you to someone!”

She took Brienne’s hand and tugged her to where Daemon stood at the door, somehow looking more at ease than either of them, even as he remained there, not speaking to anyone. Some people had all the luck.

“Lady Brienne, may I introduce you to Ser Daemon Sand?” she said. “Lord Allyrion’s son and mine own cousin’s most trusted knight. Ser Brienne, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

“My lady,” Daemon said, bowing, taking Brienne’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. When he straightened, Rhaenys could see that Brienne was taller, but not by much. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.”

Brienne managed to answer without stammering. Daemon smiled faintly and asked, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She hesitated, then nodded tentatively, and the two of them took to the floor. That left Rhaenys with no real excuse to not do the same. So she threw herself into entertaining her other guests.

She flitted around the hall, checking in on anyone and everyone, laughing and japing, pressing a fresh cup of wine into Lancel’s hand and kissing Loras’s cheek and letting Edmure spin her around the floor for what felt like hours before she found Arianne and sat down next to her to catch her breath.

“Everything all right?” Arianne asked, fingers toying with a fig, eyes off somewhere in the distance. Rhaenys nodded, taking a long drink of water.

“Just a little tired.”

Arianne’s mouth quirked sympathetically. “Almost there, sweetling.”

They fell into silence for a while. Rhaenys scanned the hall for anything out of the ordinary, only for her eyes to catch on Brienne, seated not far from them. She was still with Daemon, and her big blue eyes were fixed on him adoringly. He didn’t seem to notice, but he was leaning forward, engaging her in conversation anyway. She stammered something in reply and he laughed. Rhaenys blinked in surprise.

Arianne huffed. Rhaenys glanced back over at her to see that her gaze was fixed in the same direction.

“He’s good in bed,” the Dornish princess said, determinedly neutral. “Clever. Sweet. And he wouldn’t presume to tell her what to do.”

“The two of you…”

Arianne nodded sharply.

“Yes,” she said, and even though her voice was calm, her fingers were knotted together so tightly her knuckles had turned white. “Years ago.”

“How…how long?”

Arianne didn’t answer for a long time. Just when Rhaenys had started to believe she wouldn’t, she said, “From the time we were fourteen up until I was betrothed to Viserys.”

She drew in another breath as if she wanted to keep talking, but instead, she pressed her lips together tight and shook her head.

Rhaenys tried to remember. She could barely remember a time before there had been an understanding that her cousin and uncle would one day wed, but the betrothal hadn’t been formalized until she’d been…twelve? Thirteen? And Arianne was four years older than her.

“That long?”

“He’d make her happy,” Arianne said instead of answering. “That much I can be sure of. If she can do the same for him…”

“I’ll find out what I can about her family, then,” Rhaenys said. “Even if they don’t wed, we might be able to find something that keeps them around each other.”

Arianne’s head jerked into another sharp nod. “I would appreciate it.”

She got to her feet and pulled Rhaenys up with her, the storm clouds of her face parting with her sunshine smile. “Now _we_ need to go enjoy ourselves. Come dance with me.”

* * *

“Samwell Tarly?” Daenerys said the next day, and her disappointment was palpable. “…oh.”

Even though Rhaenys had _known_ she couldn’t have expected Dany’s delight, it still hurt to see those crestfallen eyes. She sighed. “I take it you don’t like the idea.”

“Well…” Dany hesitated. “He’s not…he’s…”

Rhaenys sighed again. “I know.”

“Why him? Of all the men in Westeros?”

It was a fair enough question.

Rhaenys wanted to scream.

She was _protecting_ her, how did Dany not see that? How did she not understand all the calculations, all the concerns, all the ways either of them making the slightest of wrong moves could get them killed? How was she missing that _Rhaenys was trying?_

“He may not be handsome, or brave, or – or what you were hoping for,” Rhaenys said carefully rather than screaming, “but he’s his father’s heir. He’ll inherit valuable lands, and we can be sure he won’t hurt you. And from what we’ve seen of him…I expect you’d become the de facto head of House Tarly.”

She took her aunt’s face in her hands and made her eyes go as soft as she knew how to make them. “Daenerys, I want you to be _safe_. You know that, don’t you?”

Dany nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. Of course I know that.”

Rhaenys let herself take a breath, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “I take it you met someone you liked better, then?”

Dany couldn’t suppress her grin. She nodded. Rhaenys tilted her head.

“And?”

“The one who was with your cousin,” Dany admitted. “Gerris. Drinkwater.”

“Gerris,” Rhaenys repeated, raising her eyebrows. “Really.”

Dany blushed prettily. “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Rhaenys allowed, though she didn’t really know. No one, boy or girl, man or woman, had ever made her pulse quicken out of desire. She couldn’t remember once looking at anyone and imagining what it would be like to touch them, kiss them, wed them, bed them. No, when she saw people, her mind went to how they could help her, how they could hurt her.

Daenerys wasn’t like her.

She sighed again. “You know I would say yes in a heartbeat if we lived in less dangerous times, don’t you?”

Dany’s eyebrows knit together. “Dangerous?”

“It hasn’t been long since we were at war,” Rhaenys reminded her. “There are still those that are angry. Anything could spark another conflict.”

She hesitated, then took a risk. “We have to be the responsible ones. You and I, we have to keep our family together. Father is…reckless, sometimes.”

Daenerys’s violet eyes were wide and guileless, her pert mouth drawn into a moue. Rhaenys forged on. “Aegon does his best to keep him under control, but he can only do so much. What _we_ have to do is make sure the realm is as stable as we can make it. That way, no single action matters as much. And one of the best ways to do that is through alliances.”

“I – I understand,” Daenerys said, and for the first time, she looked shaken. Rhaenys reached out to pet her hair.

“Don’t worry,” she said, voice just shy of a croon. “I’m going to take care of everything.”

* * *

The Dornish party returned home first, but Daemon and Sarella stayed a few weeks longer with Rhaenys’s fledgling court. As they all settled into Summerhall, Rhaenys settled into a routine.

She found travelling singers and bards that had been hosted in the halls of castles all over the Seven Kingdoms, invited them in for stories and gossip, plying them with wine until they told her everything they knew. She met with the marcher lords that were in and out of her castle regularly, helping them settle disputes. She brought in knights and squires from all over. She took her ladies riding and hawking, held archery contests just for them.

One day, she rode alongside Margaery at the head of the company, who laughed and told her stories of Highgarden. Something about one of those stories – something inane about the sweetness of the fruit – caught Rhaenys’s attention, and she tilted her head. She tilted her head, honestly curious now. “What’s that like, spending your entire childhood in one place?”

Margaery’s answering smile was softer, somehow.

“Highgarden is – ” she began, looking somewhere past Rhaenys. “Well. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. And it’s home. I know every inch of the place. Whenever I walk into a room, it’s where Willas used to put me on his knee and draw me pictures of stars, or where Loras and I learned to dance, or where Garlan made us all laugh with his stories.”

It had to be an act, a carefully calculated performance directed at Rhaenys the Princess, not Rhaenys the woman, a gentle reminder of Margaery’s unmarried brothers. Why else would her eyes goes so soft and her eyes so open, as if there were nobody there to see her? A king for her and a princess for one of them. That had to be the goal.

Rhaenys drew in a breath and changed the subject. They continued to ride until the sun began to set. When they returned to the castle grounds, it was to see Brienne and Daemon sparring, Sarella watching with interest from the side with a book in her hands. Margaery brought her hands together in a clap, and Brienne jumped.

“Princess,” she blurted out, looking guilty, dropping her sword. “We were just –”

Rhaenys laughed. “No need to stop on my account, Lady Brienne. Nor to explain yourself.”

Sarella stood up and eyed Brienne appraisingly. “Have you ever tried a spear? My sister could teach you.”

“I – no,” Brienne stammered, blushing to the roots of her hair. “I…a sword, mostly. Or a mace.”

Sarella nodded understandingly. “I prefer a bow, myself. You should visit Sunspear. I’m heading to Oldtown soon, but my sisters could teach you all kinds of interesting things. Arianne would love to host you.”

 _Sunspear,_ Rhaenys thought. Perhaps Quentyn? But no, that couldn’t work – many a year had passed between the last time she’d seen Quentyn in King’s Landing and his arrival with Arianne for the feast, but rumour had it he was still painfully shy, and the little she’d seen of him during the feast had done nothing to dissuade that impression. It would be a good match for the both of them…but if Rhaenys wanted to count on support from the Stormlands, she needed better than mutually advantageous, she needed…

“That sounds nice,” Brienne said. She didn’t sound very sure about that. “Maybe one day.”

“I’ll have Arianne send you an invitation,” Sarella answered, her viper eyes gleaming and a catlike smile crossing her mouth. “No doubt Ser Daemon would be willing to escort you whenever the time comes.”

Daemon raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Certainly.”

Brienne’s blush deepened.

* * *

In the evening, Rhaenys found herself sitting next to Brienne as a puppeteer performed for them. Brienne wasn’t watching the show – her eyes were fixed on where Daemon was sitting near a handful of young knights at the far end of the hall, quietly speaking to Sarella. Rhaenys rather thought she knew what the other woman was thinking.

Had Brienne’s eye been drawn to any other man, she would keep her mouth shut and never say anything. But Daemon…he was bastard born, and Brienne was heir to an island. He was kind and gallant while she was shy and awkward, listening to whatever she said without mocking her looks or size. Even Brienne might be willing to risk making that confession.

From what Sarella had said, Daemon had always been close to his father. If she facilitated his marriage to Brienne…Daemon would get lands and Rhaenys might get House Allyrion’s favour and Brienne could build a life with someone that could come to love her. But from what _Arianne_ had said, Daemon didn’t want lands or someone warm to share his bed, he wanted love to precede marriage. And Brienne’s father might have given up trying to arrange betrothals after she’d broken the third’s ribs, but that didn’t mean he’d allow her to wed a natural son. Attempting to arrange the marriage could lead to Rhaenys gaining the daughter’s love and the father’s hate. But with the father still young enough to live another twenty years, that might not be a risk worth taking. She needed to give it more thought. In the meantime…

“I received a letter from my brother today,” she said carefully – quietly, voice not audible to anyone but Brienne. “He received a complaint from some fishermen on Dragonstone. _Apparently,_ the increased ship traffic in the past few years is having a detrimental effect on the lamprey and salmon populations in the area. Fishing is important to Tarth’s economy, is it not? What have you done?”

Brienne started, but managed to recover, nodding even as a flush crept up her neck. “Aye, princess. Not so many merchant vessels travel between Tarth and the mainland, but…my father designated lines they cannot cross…put restrictions on what can be fished, where, how much, by who…”

She stammered her way through a brief explanation of those restrictions, then trailed off. Rhaenys nodded slowly, eyebrows knitting together as she thought it through. “Aegon thought to raise the matter at the next meeting of our father’s small council. I’ll send him a raven. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the information.”

She smiled. To her delight, Brienne smiled back. Rhaenys reached to cover her hand with her own. Brienne started, but didn’t pull away.

“You and I, we’re heirs in our own right, are we not? We ought to work together. Have a little…womanly influence on the Seven Kingdoms.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she nodded. “Of course, princess. Whatever you wish.”

Rhaenys managed to avoid breathing an audible sigh of relief, instead pasting on a smile and going back to looking at the puppet show without watching.

Sarella would soon leave for Oldtown, Daemon for Sunspear, and Arianne had Dorne to worry about and the ever-present sly gleam in Margaery’s eyes put Rhaenys on edge, but Brienne was straightforward and honest and around her, Rhaenys didn’t have to worry about every word, every gesture, every tiny movement of her face.

Could she have Aegon marry Brienne instead? Tarth was well located for trade with Essos…self sustainable in terms of food…all but impossible to siege…she was less uncomfortable with Brienne than she was Margaery…and a Tarth becoming queen wouldn’t shift the balance of power dangerously.

It could work.

But she needed to talk to Aegon.

* * *

Her little brother hugged her.

Gods be good, she was older than him, it was her job to protect him, and yet at some point, he’d grown taller than her, and now he was holding her tight against him like he’d missed her as much as she had him. He was on her side, always. The two of them against the world.

“How’s Dragonstone?” she asked when he let go of her. “Did you get my raven?”

“Cold. And yes, I have people looking into how to implement those ideas right now. What about Summerhall?”

They kept babbling at each other for a while until they’d worked out enough energy to start making sense. Aegon ushered her into a chair and sat down across from her to exchange pleasantries.

“I’m trying to reinstate some of Aegon the Fifth’s reforms,” he told her when his voice was calm again. Rhaenys had to squeeze her eyes shut against the panic that threatened to choke her.

“That didn’t work the first time,” she managed. “What makes you think it will now?”

“Friendship?” her brother offered wryly. “The lords know me better than they knew him. Not to mention…they’re just as worried about another war as we are. Could take advantage of that to get what I want.”

“What you want,” she repeated, fixing him with a look. “What else are you planning?”

“Nothing too dangerous,” Aegon promised. “Or even that I need the lords’ permission to do! Just…to appoint Duck to the Kingsguard to replace Ser Gerold, once it’s time.”

Rhaenys laughed, and if it wobbled, who was there to know? Just Aegon, and it was them against the world. “You really do want to be just like him, huh.”

“Well…when the other choices are a conqueror, a usurper, and someone known to the entire world as unworthy…it’s not that difficult a choice.” He grinned, and Rhaenys bumped his shoulder with her own.

“I think you’re forgetting someone. What about the third one?”

Aegon snorted. “And here I thought you loved me. Doesn’t the _unlucky_ moniker speak for itself? I don’t think I’m well suited for spending the rest of my life miserable and silent. Not to mention…I’d think you would take offense at the idea of me abandoning you to be murdered.”

Rhaenys smiled. “That’s true enough.”

“Just leaves the fifth one,” Aegon said, holding up a hand and stretching out all five fingers.

“You could just be _you,_ ” Rhaenys pointed out. “I’m doing fine not following in the footsteps of either of my predecessors.”

Aegon inclined his head to concede the point. “But you’ll help me?”

“Of course I will,” she promised. “However I can.”

A sly smile crept across his face at the same time as he tucked his chin in to give her a sheepish look. She narrowed her eyes. “Aegon…”

“Would you talk to Father?” he asked quickly. “None of this will work if I can’t convince him it’s necessary.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

It came out peevish, and she expected that to be the end of it for then, but Aegon just shook his head. “He loves you more than he’s ever loved me.”

The words were bitter, but Aegon’s tone was resigned, and something about it irked her. What was he _talking_ about? They had been a team since he had learned to walk. It was Aegon and Rhaenys, always, side by side. But here he was, suggesting that it wasn’t.

“No, he doesn’t,” Rhaenys snapped. “He doesn’t love anyone but himself.”

He raised his pale eyebrows at her. “You don’t really believe that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re smarter than that, Rhaenys!” he exclaimed, and now he sounded annoyed, too. “You’re the only one of us he’s ever cared about. All he does is think about you. And you’ve spent my whole life going out of your way to avoid him. What’s the point?”

“The _point_?” she echoed, outraged, but Aegon didn’t back down.

“It’s been years _,_ ” he said. “He made a mistake years ago. What’s the point in refusing to accept that he’s trying? It’s not going to change anything that happened. All it’s doing is hurting you.”

“A mistake,” she scoffed, shaking her head, and thought, _you couldn’t even talk._

She thought, _You didn’t even realize he was gone._

She thought, _You weren’t devastated when he came back._

But she didn’t – couldn’t – say any of that. How could she? Instead, she said, “He set the world on fire. He destabilized the realm. He abandoned his wife after she nearly died birthing his heir. And all he does is act like I’m the one that’s being unreasonable.”

“And that means you’re going to continue to not talk to him forever?”

“I never said I wouldn’t talk to him!”

“But you don’t!”

“Because maybe he doesn’t deserve it!” Rhaenys snapped, and the silence that followed was deafening. Both their voices had been raised, and they glared at each other, neither willing to yield an inch.

“Well,” Aegon said at last. “I suppose that’s your decision to make.”

She slumped back into her chair, and her brother did the same. This quiet wasn’t the easy kind of their childhood. It was thick and awful and suffocating.

“Egg?” Rhaenys said after her breathing evened out, trying for a light tone. She missed, but it was close enough that some of the tension eased out of Aegon’s shoulders.

“Rhae?”

“Just…” She hesitated, anger at herself spiking as she did – she was ruining her own attempt to fix things! She managed to forge on. “Just promise me you won’t ever do anything that risks burning down my castle and killing everyone in it, all right?”

Aegon’s brow creased with a puzzled frown, but he smiled and nodded and jested about her lack of trust and they managed to relax into a companionable silence.

* * *

There was a member of the Kingsguard standing by the door to the king’s solar.

“Ser Jaime,” she said. “How do you do.”

It was trite, but Jaime looked older, now. It had only been a few moons since she’d seen him last, but now his golden hair was silvered, faint crow’s feet etched at the corners of his eyes, lines bracketing his mouth. There was no sign of his old lively grin. Perhaps it had been like that for a while and she hadn’t noticed the change. Perhaps she, too, looked older. Could the world entire see that it was all she could do to keep her back straight and her chin up? When had he stopped smiling like it was second nature? When had she?

Ser Jaime inclined his head to her. “Welcome home, princess.”

“Thank you, ser.” She made to knock on the door, then paused, turning back to the Kingsguard. “Might I trouble you to go check on Daenerys? She wasn’t feeling well, and I was hoping to know if she’d be ready to return in the morning.”

Jaime smirked. “You know, if you want privacy, you could just ask me to leave. No need to make up errands.”

She smiled sweetly. “Would you, ser?”

Jaime bowed mockingly. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

He sauntered down the hall. Rhaenys watched him go, then strode into the room without knocking and cleared her throat at the king that hadn’t even noticed her entry. “Father.”

Rhaegar scrambled to his feet and hurried around his desk. “Rhaenys!”

He hugged her, and she allowed it, standing stiffly in his arms until he released her. She examined him carefully. He looked thinner, face pale and haggard. Even the silvery gold waterfall of his hair seemed dull. Even so, she told him, “You look well.”

“As do you,” he said, drinking in the sight of her. “I didn’t know you were coming, I would have made arrangements for a feast.”

“There’s no need for that,” Rhaenys said. “I won’t be staying long.”

Rhaegar’s shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh. To Rhaenys’s irritation, her own heart sank at the sight. How was it possible that his sadness could still bother her? How could his reactions to anything mean so much to her?

“I came to meet Aegon, but I must speak with you as well,” she said. Her father tilted his head to the side. “About Aegon’s land grant proposals.”

“Oh?”

“He’s right. It’s a good plan that’ll lead to long term gains and greater stability.”

Rhaegar sighed. “The lords are still angry over…it won’t be easy to get them to agree.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But they like Aegon. And he, Daenerys, and I are all still unmarried. If we make any betrothal conditional on supporting his reforms, we can make sure they pass within the next two years and are phased in over three.”

He considered her. “Talk me through it.”

“It – I mean, it depends,” she said, stammering over it in surprise. She’d expected a _no,_ followed by excuses and platitudes, or maybe even one of the _yeses_ that had grown increasingly common over the years for any small thing he even _suspected_ she wanted, as if he thought that would make her happy. It had been many a year since he’d asked her to make an argument, like he had when she was little and he would ask her _why,_ as if her answer was the most interesting thing in the world. “We’d start small with a limited number of people. Soldiers that have served more than, say, twenty years, or farmers that are experienced with tending someone else’s land. Then we sell lots for small sums based on a priority system, reinvest the money gained, and enact a price control system on staple foods to make it easier for smallfolk to save for such a lot. Then instead of charging these new landowners a land tax, we have them pay in some portion of their harvest, depending on the size of their family and the size of the farm. We further divide that between what we redistribute immediately, what we use, and what we store until winter.”

She fell silent. Rhaegar didn’t reply immediately, but his eyes went very soft. Then – “Okay.”

“Okay?” she checked. Rhaegar nodded.

“I trust you,” he said. “If you think it will work, I believe you can do it.”

Just for an instant, pride rushed through her, warming her through to her toes. She was a woman grown, years experienced in hating her father as much as she’d once loved him. But despite herself, that soft smile still brought her back to when she’d been three and toddled to him to show off that she’d learned to write her name, when he’d pulled her into his lap and tickled her and smiled that smile that was just hers. Dany, echoing Ser Barristan, had once called Rhaegar melancholic, and perhaps it was true. But he’d always had a smile for Rhaenys.

“Thank you,” she said. She turned to leave, but he called out to her to wait.

“I found you something,” he told her once she’d turned back to face him. “A – a gift.”

“A gift?” she echoed, tilting her head, and Rhaegar’s nod was eager.

“I searched everywhere for it,” he said. “In Essos, too. But I found it near Summerhall. I meant to wait until your nameday, but now is as good a time as any.”

Her brow furrowed as he pulled open a desk drawer, only for her eyes to widen as he emerged, clutching a bundle wrapped in cloth. Summerhall, she knew what this had to be – he’d told her about it, all those years ago, not long after he’d returned home from the war, when her fear, not yet settled into anger, had meant she wanted him with her, protecting her, never leaving again. In those weeks – months? A year? – she’d been his little princess, the absolute focus of his attention, and he’d told her stories that he promised he’d never told anyone else, stories based on information he’d learned that no one was left alive to know, whispered secrets in the night. Secrets about Summerhall and what had happened all those years ago. Now he placed the bundle into her arms reverently and pulled away the cloth to show her what she already knew was there.

She stared down at the object in her arms. Green and white swirled together over the surface. A dragon’s egg. A real dragon’s egg. The first anyone had seen in Westeros in decades.

And he hadn’t given it to Aegon or Jon, Daenerys or Viserys, neither any of the silver haired Targaryens nor the son whose conception had led to a war, he’d given it to _her._ His only daughter, the Targaryen that looked like a Martell.

She ran a thumb across the scaled surface. It was smooth, reminding her of snake skin. A dragon’s egg to go along with the castle built by Daeron the Good…two priceless gifts, to the daughter and not the heir. Gifts that would be astounding even _for_ an heir.

She glanced away from the egg and up at her father. He was still, hands folded in front of him, knuckles white from how tightly they were clasped together. His eyes were fixed on hers, wide and hopeful and waiting for some reaction, any reaction.

“Father, I – I –”

She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. What could she possibly say? How could she respond to her father searching everywhere for something they hadn’t believed existed? Not only searching, but _finding_ it and presenting it to her like it was just a gift, not something monumental?

He’d betrayed her mother.

He’d plunged the kingdom into a war.

He’d abandoned her.

And he’d spent almost her entire life searching for her forgiveness, desperately trying to return what they’d had when she’d been a child, crawling all over him and demanded songs and stories. Mostly he’d tried with stories, just like before he’d left. But they were stories that came across more as confessions, a child’s excuses rather than any kind of real apology. She wasn’t a child anymore and neither was he.

How could she forgive him? But this wasn’t a trinket, wasn’t a gown or bit of jewellery or some favourite food brought to her in the library. This was a _dragon egg_ when the world entire believed there were no more left, a dragon egg for the blood of the dragon, a dragon egg for the Targaryen princess with the face of her Martell mother, a dragon egg that her father had searched everywhere to find for _her._

She stood there, staring, speechless, and of all the thoughts swirling around in her head, of Rhaegar and Elia, of an affair and a war, of a sword of Valyrian steel and a king that had hated his heir, not one of them was of a possible response.

She didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Rhaegar’s stiffness melted away as she stammered. He smiled, and it was blindingly bright, brighter than she’d ever seen him smile. His eyes shone.

“You’re the Princess of Summerhall,” he said. “You’re my firstborn child. This egg is yours by rights.”

“Thank you,” she said, and the words weren’t right at all, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Rhaegar’s smile broadened even further.

“Rhaenys Targaryen,” he mused. “A name for dragonriders.”

She skittered back, breath catching, hands tightening involuntarily around the egg. “Father–”

How was it possible that he could _still_ break her heart?

He’d given her a castle and a dragon’s egg and still, it all came back to the Rhaenys of old, a head of the dragon _,_ just as it had for as long as she could remember.

Rhaenys had dreamt of dragons, once upon a time, of her little Balerion growing wings like the Black Dread of old and taking her into the sky. A child’s fantasy that had morphed into a deep yearning to be away – away from her father, away from the judgemental eyes of courtiers, away from the schemers that would rather she die – for everything to burn to the ground, enveloped in cleansing flames, so something better could rise from the ashes. But she couldn’t, not like this, not after everything that that same dream had caused.

Rhaegar’s stories of Targaryens long gone had included Aegon the Unlucky’s mages and Baelor the Blessed’s prayers and Aerion Brightflame’s gruesome end and Aegon the Unlikely’s desperate attempts to save the world. She couldn’t be one of them. She wouldn’t. Especially not when she’d also dreamed of ice and screams and death all around her.

She shook her head, heart racing, but Rhaegar just _kept talking._ She had to say something, she had to do something, but her breath was solid in her throat and she couldn’t get enough air and Rhaegar’s voice – _every Rhaenys was a famed rider_ and _I never thought about it when I named you_ – was making it all worse.

“Surely, it’s fate,” Rhaegar finished. “This egg was meant for you to have.”

Finally, she could speak, and the old anger flared up again, uncontrollable, because _how dare he say that to her_?

“ _There is no such thing as fate_!” she all but shrieked. “It’s like you haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said in my entire life!”

She started pacing, back and forth in front of the desk, gesticulating wildly with the egg she still held. “Your great grandfather believed it was his destiny to bring back dragons and he killed half his family trying. Your grandfather believed in the damned prince that was promised and forced his children to marry because of it, paving the way for the deaths of thousands. And _you._ You started a war for your _fucking_ Visenya and got a Jon instead. How much more evidence do you need?!”

Her father’s purple eyes were wide and hurt, the eyes of a child rather than a man, and she had never hated him more than in this moment. How dare he look at her like that? What gave him the right to be _hurt_?

Her eyes stung and she had to bite down hard on her lip to stop it from wobbling.

“I have to go,” she said. “Remember what I said.”

“Rhaenys!” her father called, but she was already gone, hurrying out the door, down the hall.

She kept going, not stopping until she’d reached her own childhood bedchambers and barred the door behind her, sinking to the ground. Only then did she let herself start crying.


	3. as the leaves turned to gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at Summerhall goes on and Brienne observes Rhaenys.

No one knew exactly what had happened to King Aerys II.

There had been no unusual marks upon his body, save for little cuts down his arms from the Iron Throne, and no evidence of foul play, though even that was up for debate – after all, there had been a war going on, few people had been present within the Red Keep to see the corpse, there had been plenty of time for a swap to have been made, and the body had been cremated. All that was known for certain was that the king had been hale one day then dead the next, leaving his good-daughter at the head of House Targaryen while the crown prince was off at war.

There had been whispers that it had been that good-daughter, the Dornish Princess Elia, sister of the Red Viper, that had killed him, poisoning his food or wine or even using some form of dark magic. After all, it had been she that had sent terms to Lord Arryn of the Vale, just as her husband and Robert Baratheon had met upon the Trident. Those whispers were never spoken in King’s Landing, and it wasn’t hard to guess why – bards told stories of Rhaegar’s grief for his Princess Elia. The king that had been the once beloved crown prince had regained some of the love he’d lost only through the strength of that grief, the weight of his regret, and according to most, the war and deaths had hardened him into someone almost unrecognizable. Nobody wanted to be the one to bring up that bloody history, not where he could hear it.

Brienne didn’t often think about those rumours. There had been no evidence one way or the other, after all, and it hardly mattered now anyway – Elia herself was long dead, and the world had breathed a sigh of relief when mad, cruel Aerys’s death had been announced. But now, at Summerhall, attending Princess Rhaenys and her aunt Daenerys, she couldn’t help but consider them again.

Rumour also had it that Elia Martell had looked just like her daughter, if a little thinner and more prone to bouts of illness. If that was true, Brienne found the first rumour difficult to believe. She could hardly imagine _Rhaenys_ killing someone – not Rhaenys of the sunny smiles and sweet consideration for everyone around her.

Brienne would have ordinarily felt out of place at Summerhall. The princess’s other companions were pretty and charming, some prone to whispers and fits of giggles that Brienne couldn’t help but think were aimed at her and others with glinting eyes and knowing smirks that made Brienne avert her gaze, heartrate rising. The princess herself was lovely to look upon, and people everywhere understood her to be the closest thing the realm had to a queen, with both the king’s mother and wife gone. Margaery’s brother Garlan had once called her the king’s ear, for even the Hand of the King had more difficulty meeting with Rhaegar than Rhaenys. It should have been intimidating, and it would have been – but for Rhaenys.

Rhaenys Targaryen’s household was a warm one. The princess was hospitable and kind, carefully listening to everything her ladies had to say and arranging activities that would amuse them, joining in on jests while never saying anything mean or cruel. She’d just smiled indulgently at Garlan’s remark about the king and japed that her brother, the crown prince, listened to her even more. She was fond of her bastard cousin, welcoming her into her hall as she would any trueborn daughter. Sarella Sand’s brief presence at Summerhall had startled most of Rhaenys’s companions, but the stories Rhaenys had encouraged her to share were so riveting that Margaery hadn’t been able tear her eyes away from her, and when the time had come for her to leave, Rhaenys hadn’t been the only one to embrace her. Most astoundingly of all, Rhaenys seemed to favour Brienne’s company. She’d sit by her during meals and engage her in conversation, ride next to her on their day trips and ask her opinion on the news of the day, invite her to her solar so they could break their fast together, and somehow, over time, Brienne had stopped avoiding her gaze throughout it all, to the point where she could sometimes even speak something that wasn’t an answer to a direct question.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Rhaenys said now. She gestured at the small table beside the desk, covered with bottles and small snacks. “Would you like some water? Wine?”

“Water, please.”

Rhaenys smiled and poured them both a cup. Brienne took hers with a nod of gratitude, turning her attention to the parchment and quill before her. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“To my dear brother,” Rhaenys dictated and waited patiently for Brienne to catch up. “I will be hosting a weeklong fair at Summerhall in two moons, with craftspeople and artisans from all over the Seven Kingdoms. I would be pleased if you could attend. I have many people I would like for you to meet. With love always.”

When Brienne finished, Rhaenys took the quill and signed her name in elegant script. It was a short message, more a note than a true letter. Brienne had to wonder why Rhaenys had asked her to transcribe it at all.

“I like to have my ladies assist me with my correspondence,” Rhaenys said, as if she’d read Brienne’s mind. “But only if I know exactly what I want to say without needing to first write it. I find it’s a good excuse to speak to you all individually.”

“Individually…have I displeased you in some way, my lady?”

Rhaenys waved a hand dismissively. “Not at all. I just wanted to check if there were anyone you’d like me to not invite.”

“My lady?”

“To the fair. Anyone you absolutely despise? Anyone that’s made you uncomfortable somehow? It doesn’t matter who or when. Just give me a name and I’ll make sure they’re not here.”

She meant it, Brienne realized. Rhaenys’s eyes were dead serious and fixed on her own, waiting for a response.

“I…”

It had been the son of the Hand’s cousin that had thrust a rose at her as she stammered, and the sharp spike of humiliation had been almost enough to overpower the terror tying her tongue. And against all odds, Summerhall was safe – more than safe. Somehow, with Rhaenys and all the ladies from around Westeros, with the activities they all did together, the languid evenings of conversation and songs, it had come to feel almost like home. She’d always been shy, but she hadn’t felt so much as a flicker of unease when around Rhaenys since they’d first met. Now, as she thought about her former betrothed entering this sacred space and catching sight of her, all gleaming eyes and sneers and peals of mocking laugher, thought about the spread of stories through the castle and pitying expressions on the faces of ladies she liked and admired, her stomach turned.

But he was the son of the Hand’s cousin.

Rhaenys meant it. So Brienne couldn’t ask. She wasn’t going to risk making Rhaenys’s life harder for the sake of avoiding a few days discomfort. Ser Ronnet might not even come, and if he did, Brienne could handle it.

“No, princess,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Rhaenys smiled.

“I suppose everyone will be on their best behaviour anyway,” she mused, rolling up the scrap of parchment and sealing it shut, hands lingering on it rather than setting it back down. “If Aegon will be there. My brother has always made it clear that he expects decency and doesn’t tolerate poor conduct.”

“What’s he like?” Brienne asked. “Prince Aegon?”

Rhaenys tilted her head as she considered it. Her silence stretched for long enough that Brienne started to suspect she wouldn’t get an answer.

“You’ll like him,” she said finally. “Most everyone does.”

She ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them. Brienne stared. She had thought it just a casual question, but Rhaenys’s eyes had gone distant, brow furrowing a little, the way her face sometimes shifted when she was puzzling over a problem, during the silences between conversations.

“He looks like our father,” the princess continued. “But they’re not much alike in character, in truth. Father’s view of the world often stems from what he’s read. Aegon prefers to see it for himself. He took a trip when he came of age…a royal progress throughout the Seven Kingdoms, yes, but after he finished that, he crossed the Narrow Sea to see the rest of the world. He befriended a young man, a blacksmith’s son, effectively in exile for years. He knighted him and brought him home, insisted Father pardon him for any crimes committed. And now Duck is one of his closest friends.”

Rhaenys’s hands were still moving, running back and forth along the tiny roll of parchment, thumb tracing circles around the wax of her seal. Brienne couldn’t take her eyes off them. They were far more delicate looking than Brienne’s own hands, yet she wouldn’t have called them small. Rhaenys’s fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a harpist, and they twisted around her letter, intertwining with each other so tightly that her knuckles turned white while keeping the pressure such that the parchment didn’t crumple.

“I don’t see him often anymore, not since he claimed his seat at Dragonstone and I came here, but he’s…he’s a good brother,” Rhaenys concluded. She finally set the letter back down on the desk. “He’ll be a wonderful king.”

She leaned back against her chair and sighed contentedly, grabbing a plate from the side table. “Would you like anything to eat? More water?”

Brienne hadn’t even touched the first cup. She hastily gulped some down and accepted a cube of cheese from the proffered plate. Rhaenys, apparently not in any rush for Brienne to leave, took a handful of almonds for herself.

“So,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve told you about my brother, so I think it’s your turn. Tell me all about Tarth, my lady.”

* * *

“Did you hear?” Desmera said, leaning forward. “Ser Daemon might be coming back for the fair. Prince Doran is looking for a new armourer, and so Daemon has been looking in the Boneway for him.”

Brienne bit her lip and tried not to blush. Ser Daemon, who had smiled at her and danced with her and listened carefully to what she had to say without looking away, as if what she had to say mattered, as if the sight of her face didn’t repulse him, who had taken her seriously when he saw her training instead of laughing. Perhaps he’d train with her again if he returned?

“I heard he was in love with someone he couldn’t marry,” Desmera continued. Margaery pressed her clasped hands against her chest.

“Oh, how romantic.”

Eleanor Mooton sighed wistfully. “If only _I_ could marry him, he’s so handsome.”

It was true. Daemon’s smile was slow to cross his face, but real, lighting up his eyes, and it had sent a thrill through Brienne whenever she said something to draw it out. And when they’d trained together…he’d moved with liquid grace, his hands gentle as they’d corrected her stance, and for a moment, he’d been almost too beautiful to look at. As she’d watched him ride off, all she’d been able to think of was how he was bastard born, a knight with no lands of his own. She was heir to Evenfall. She could take him home, to Tarth, and make him a lord, and bask forever in the glow of that smile…but he was bastard born.

She’d disappointed her father enough already.

Margaery glanced at Daenerys, eyes gleaming. “Surely you know who he was in love with? Or if that’s true at all?”

Daenerys smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve never even heard him say much. Maybe we can find out when he comes back!”

The conversation moved on, to the crown prince who Daenerys promised was excellent company, to the next ride she wanted to take them on, to what they should all do for Rhaenys’s nameday in a few moons. Daenerys changed the topic midsentence once Rhaenys entered the room, away from Rhaenys’s favourite foods and songs and toward how Rhaenys had often taken her to wander the markets in King’s Landing for hours and speak with the vendors, without missing a beat. Rhaenys smiled and ruffled Daenerys’s hair, sitting down beside her aunt with casual grace.

“I thought you had done that here not long ago?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She cast a look at everyone else in the room. “Didn’t you go with Lady Ysilla just last week?”

“It’s no fun without you,” Daenerys pouted. Rhaenys laughed.

“We’ll go soon,” she promised. “All of us. We must find all the best local artisans soon.”

Daenerys smiled brightly. She and her niece were a study in contrasts, sitting next to each other as they were, she fair and carefree, Rhaenys dark and restrained, and it grew even more pronounced as she rested her head against Rhaenys’s shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.”

* * *

Margaery was small but strong, and passionate for a number of outdoor activities, from riding to hawking to sailing. From the way she exclaimed in delight at a bowyer’s goods, lifted a bow and tugged at the string to assess its weight, and accepted a handful of arrows to test how well it shot, it seemed that archery could be added to that list as well. From how those arrows clustered together around the centre of the target, it seemed more than a passion – a real talent.

“Well shot,” Brienne said. Margaery smiled brightly.

“Sarella gave me some tips before she left,” she explained, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Do you think she’ll come back sometime soon?”

“Rhaenys said she has business in Oldtown,” Brienne said. “So I doubt it.”

Margaery sighed. “What a pity.”

The bowyer ran to retrieve Margaery’s arrows from the target. When he returned, Margaery held out a handful of coins and the bow. “I’ll take it. Your work is _marvelous,_ where are you from?”

“Here and there, my lady,” the man said, busying himself with wrapping Margaery’s purchase in paper. “Been living near Storm’s End for the past four years. Before that, Gulltown for a while, Lannisport for longer. Even spent some time in Dorne. But most of my life was in Oldtown. Where I was born, you know.”

“Oh, you’re a Reacher!” Margaery exclaimed. “Have you any interest in returning? I’m sure my father would love to have a man of your talents at hand at Highgarden.”

The man shook his head, a wide smile stretching his mouth and crinkling his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. But next, I’ll be going to Dragonstone. The prince liked my work, too, invited me to go back with him. And I can’t say I’ve ever been there before.”

Margaery sighed. “Oh, well. Lucky Prince Aegon.”

The man leaned in closer. “The princess brought him to meet me herself. She told us she’d heard about me from Lord Grafton and was delighted when she heard I was coming.”

“I’m sure she was,” Margaery agreed. “Well, if you ever get bored of Dragonstone – I’ve heard it’s dreadfully dreary – you can always go to Highgarden then. I promise you, _we_ know how to enjoy ourselves.”

The man laughed and held up the wrapped bow. “Will you be taking this now, my lady, or would you like me to deliver it to the castle?”

“The latter, if you would,” Margaery said, smile returning. “Thank you.”

She looped her arm through Brienne’s and led her through the rows of stalls. “Come, Brienne, I’ve been looking for a present for my brother’s wife…”

* * *

They found Rhaenys and her brother sitting atop a sundrenched blanket, each with a cup in hand and fruit tart balanced on a knee. Aegon kept reaching out to swipe the blackberries from Rhaenys’s tart. She didn’t seem to notice.

A small crowd had gathered of people wanting to speak to the prince and princess, some of whom Brienne recognized and some she didn’t. When Rhaenys caught sight of her ladies in the crowd, she flashed them a brief smile over the shoulder of the knight kneeling before her before bidding the knight to rise.

“Won’t you join us?” she asked them, once they were the ones dipping into curtseys before her. “Come, it won’t be long until the feast, do sit down.”

Brienne and Margaery did as she bid them.

“So, have the two of you been enjoying the fair so far?”

As they conversed, it began to dawn on Brienne that Rhaenys might have had an ulterior motive – fewer people came up to her and her brother, when they saw Brienne and Margaery sitting there beside them. As Rhaenys had said, it was almost time for the feast. Sitting with two of her ladies…it was a polite signal that she was otherwise occupied, one that freed her to move as she needed. It was very Rhaenys, and even though Brienne had always been averse to people saying things without saying them, always wished more of them would just say what they meant, it was _Rhaenys,_ who had won her people’s love through kindness, rather than bluntness; decency and courtesy, rather than scheming calculation. Brienne could hardly begrudge her for that. Especially not when she listened to everything Brienne said as if it were the most important thing in the world and her smile could rival the sun.

When the crowd was entirely gone, Aegon popped another blackberry into his mouth, finished his tart in two bites, and held up a pitcher. “Would either of you like some cider?”

Brienne hadn’t known what to expect when the Prince of Dragonstone had confirmed he would visit, but when he’d arrived, it had immediately become clear that Rhaenys had spoken true – her brother looked as much like their father as Rhaenys supposedly resembled their mother, all silvery gold hair and indigo eyes, and the way he’d immediately moved to embrace his sister after dismounting had made it clear that he loved her just as much as she loved him. Now, he poured Brienne and Margaery cider, expression open and friendly, and Brienne relaxed, more at ease than she could ever remember being around a stranger. Aegon may have been the heir to the Iron Throne, may have had the sort of aching beauty that never failed to make Brienne nervous, but he was also Rhaenys’s brother, and this was Summerhall.

This was safe. This was all but home.

Margaery smiled at the crown prince. “I heard you’ve snared the services of an new bowyer, my prince. Congratulations. His work is quite wonderful.”

Aegon grinned back. “As with many of the craftsmen here. I bought a beautifully illustrated copy of _The Origins of the Iron Bank and Braavos_ from a scribe. I had it sent to my chambers, but I’ll have to show it to you later.”

While they conversed, Brienne’s attention landed back on Rhaenys. Now that the crowd had dispersed, the princess had let her impeccable posture slip just a little, tilting her head back in a way that drew the eye to the long line of her throat, the way her gown draped around her in gauzy layers.

It was an unusual choice of attire, more relaxed than the conservative style Rhaenys favoured and Desmera had taken to emulating. The cut and neckline were still demure, but the back of it dipped lower, the material lighter than her usual wool, velvet, and heavy silks. It suited her – as she closed her eyes, basking in the sunlight like a cat, she looked utterly at ease, like she should forever sit under the golden glow. Aegon beside her complemented her even more than Daenerys usually did – the fair to her dark, the large to her small, and, at that moment, the vibrant to her leisurely.

They remained like that, the four of them, until afternoon turned into evening and the sun began to set over the horizon, streaks of red and orange and pink across a background of cobalt, and bright stars beginning to twinkle into visibility. Then, as the merchants began to pack away their wares and servants began to set up tables for the guests that wouldn’t fit into the hall, Rhaenys and Aegon rose. They hadn’t exchanged a word aloud, but they moved almost in unison, and Brienne and Margaery had to scramble to their feet so as to not be caught seated while royalty stood. In a rare departure from grace, Margaery stumbled. Brienne steadied her.

“We should all change,” Rhaenys said quietly once they were all on their feet. “The feast will begin in about an hour. I’ll see you all then.”

At their nods of affirmation, the princess leaned up onto her toes to press a quick kiss to each of their cheeks, and swept back to the castle ahead of them alone.

* * *

There was no time for a proper bath, but Brienne washed her hands and face in the basin, combed her hair, and crossed the room to the wardrobe for the dress she had intended to wear.

She hesitated.

Desmera had said Ser Daemon might be attending…she hadn’t seen him among the vendors, so she’d assumed that if he were coming at all, it would be later in the week, but perhaps he arrived in time for the evening meal? And if that were the case…would it really be so bad, to put on a gown with an embroidered bodice, rather than something plain? Would it really be so bad to wear richer fabrics than wool, just on occasion?

 _Foolishness,_ she told herself. No dress could ever disguise the breadth of her shoulders or the freckled, horsey ugliness of her face. All it could do was make people laugh. And even though Daemon Sand wasn’t one for that, he would still never look at her twice, not when the hall was filled with maids prettier than she could ever be and he already loved a woman he couldn’t have. And even if he _did,_ it could never amount to anything. She _knew_ that.

But her heart still skipped a beat whenever she thought his name; her stomach still lurched when someone else commented on his handsomeness; her eyes still lingered on the clothing that filled the wardrobe, something rather like longing churning inside her.

She pulled out the plain gown with more force than necessary, dressed, and left for the feast.

She found Rhaenys standing at the end of a corridor near the Great Hall. It was rather dark, but Rhaenys stood before a row of windows, bathed in enough light that Brienne could see how she’d pulled her hair into a thick braid that fell across one shoulder and changed into a black gown with flowing sleeves that gathered at her wrists, cut straight across just beneath the large ruby that now gleamed at the hollow of her throat. One of the windows was open, letting in a cool breeze that stirred loose strands of her hair around her face and swirled her skirts around her legs. The princess’s chin was tilted up, her bearing as regal as any queen and her smile upon catching Brienne’s eye as warm as ever.

“Brienne,” she said in greeting. “I like your gown. The blue becomes you.”

Brienne flushed. The gown for which she’d exchanged the riding clothes she’d worn to the fair was one she wore quite often. The last time she’d donned it had been Daenerys’s nameday feast. It wasn’t a pretty dress, especially in comparison to Rhaenys’s. That was by design, of course – she’d realized a long time ago that it was better to stick to dark colours and hope to blend into the background – but that didn’t make it any more worth commenting on. Still, Rhaenys said it like she meant it, no artifice in her eyes, and Brienne mumbled her thanks.

“You can go ahead, if you like,” Rhaenys told her. “Most of the others are already inside. I just thought…”

She gestured at the open window. “Some air seemed like it would be nice, first. But don’t let me stop you from getting to the feast.”

Brienne hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want…?”

Rhaenys smiled again. “Worry not, my friend. Go and enjoy yourself, I’ll be along soon.”

It was a suggestion with the air of a command, and Rhaenys was the Princess of Summerhall. Brienne obeyed, and walked down the corridor. But before she turned the corner to head into the hall, she glanced back over to Rhaenys only to freeze at the other woman’s expression.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

Rhaenys’s face had fallen, brow furrowing to the point where her startling beauty had faded into the background, elegant fingers twisting together before her, eyes sharpening into something intense and almost dangerous. Brienne had seen her don similar expressions before, just brief flickers of it across her face, when glancing over letters from King’s Landing, or perusing a book on economic policy during the reign of the second King Daeron. It wasn’t always the same, not quite, but her brow furrowed that same way.

It was _worry,_ Brienne realized, breath catching. Rhaenys was _scared._

What could she possibly have to be afraid of? She was the king’s favoured child and held her own seat; her brother sought her opinion regularly; everyone at Summerhall seemed to adore her. What cause could she have to look like a cornered animal on a day as beautiful as this one, when everyone around her was happy and soon to feast on delicacies until their bellies were full and heads sleepy, when she herself had so recently looked perfectly content?

Brienne didn’t have much time to contemplate the answer – once Rhaenys noticed Brienne’s eyes on her, her odd expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She offered Brienne a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and as the starlight glimmered against her dark hair and the moon washed half her face so pale that the other side seemed an even darker olive than usual, all Brienne could think of was the woman that should have been Rhaegar’s queen.

Rhaenys looked like her mother had looked. Brienne had never seen the late Princess Elia, but that was the one thing everyone seemed to agree upon, both the people that wondered aloud if Elia had killed a king and those that called it madness because Elia couldn’t have harmed a fly. But what did that mean? When people said that Rhaenys looked like her mother, did they mean her smile? Her beautiful face and slender body and warm, gentle sweetness? Or did they mean her graceful fingers, sharp jaw, and hungry eyes, wary and watching, the even stare when she wanted an answer and the conviction in her voice when she made a promise? The Rhaenys of fairs and sunlit afternoons and easy days at the end of summer spent riding, hawking, reading, or the Rhaenys of shadowed corners in the breaths between when she thought nobody could see her?

The castle was warm, but Brienne shivered.

When she finally turned the corner and entered the hall, she took a seat beside Margaery and accepted a cup of wine. She drank, long and deep, and cast a look around the room. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and warm golden light lit up every face; the free flowing wine, laughter, and chatter warmed just as much. Brienne had half-hoped to see Ser Daemon, but even if he had been there, she wasn’t sure she would have noticed, now – all she could see was Rhaenys’s eyes, gleaming in the night.

 _Predator’s eyes,_ Brienne thought, and when Rhaenys entered the hall, all smiles once more, and took her seat at the head of their table, she had to wonder if it were not with a predator’s mannerisms, too.

Had Rhaenys always moved with that graceful intent? Had she always been so leanly poised, even when her slenderness made her seem so delicate? Had she always so easily shifted from expressions of warm openness to those fierce resolve and back again?

Brienne knew not.

Rhaenys was smiling now, and Brienne was relieved to see it – perhaps the flare of fear in her eyes had been just that, a moment of panic. Still, she wondered.

She thought back to the princess lounging in the sunlight, gentle and sweet and clever enough to know how to dissuade everyone from crowding around her once she’d grown tired without saying a word, to how her brow furrowed whenever she puzzled over a problem, to how intently she’d listened when asking Brienne about ship traffic near Tarth, to those unsettling eyes. Beautiful Rhaenys, the blood of the dragon and a daughter of the spear.

Were those eyes the Targaryen in her? Or were they something else she’d inherited from her mother’s family?

 _No,_ Brienne told herself. It didn’t matter. Not when it was Rhaenys. Rhaenys would have barred noblemen from her hall for no reason other than Brienne’s request and Brienne’s comfort. She had thrown herself into learning about fishing when fishermen complained to her brother about too much ship traffic. She spoke with serving girls and tradesmen and the noblest of lords with the same interest and ease. Rhaenys was _good._

People said the same about Elia. If she had been anything like her daughter…any murder she would have been capable of would have been to protect herself. And if those rumours were true…surely it was a good thing for Rhaenys to have inherited her mother’s hungry, dangerous eyes? If Rhaenys was scared, Brienne couldn’t believe that it was without reason, and if she could protect herself, how could that be anything _but_ good?

But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter because Brienne trusted her.

If Rhaenys could protect herself, that was good, and if she couldn’t, Brienne would have to do it for her, whether it be from assassins or courtiers or conversations she didn’t want to have. Summerhall was safe because of Rhaenys; Brienne would be damned if it didn’t feel safe for Rhaenys herself.

So at last, she relaxed and drained her cup, murmured her thanks when it was refilled and glanced down the table once more. Rhaenys sat next to her brother, nodding along as Aegon, loud enough for the whole table to hear, told a story about when he’d last been in Essos, and occasionally interjecting between bites of her meal. Daenerys, on Rhaenys’s other side, murmured something into Rhaenys’s ear, looking pleased when the older princess laughed. Brienne had to smile. She picked up her spoon and began to eat.

Rhaenys was safe here, safe and beloved, surrounded by people that would protect their princess with their lives. And soon enough, they’d be able to make her believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people gossiping about Elia clearly aren’t all that bright. If they were, they would remember what it was Oberyn received the Red Viper moniker for allegedly poisoning. And then they’d remember where Aerys spent a considerable portion of each day. And then they'd stop saying Elia poisoned his wine. Anyway, I have never known how to end things in my life. Maybe one day I'll learn, but that day is not today. Let me know what you think?


End file.
